Branded by the Light?

Here's a thing: women are not perfect, either...

OK, a confession: the Russell Brand story is the one that, for the first time, genuinely makes me feel old.

And I don’t mean old in the kind of faux-handwringing ‘omigod-I’m-so-old!’ way that my generation so conspicuously and performatively pretend we’re not ‘old’ at all —what with having our groovy grey hair expensively cut-and-coloured and our Spotify playlists full of Little Simz, Songer and Aitch.

Oh, sorry—is that just me?

No, I mean properly old, as in I-literally-don’t-get-what’s-going-on-here old. And I don’t think I’m alone because while I see plenty of my generation soul-searching on their socials over Brand’s alleged crimes, I see even more of them keeping schtum, possibly thinking ‘why is this such a huge news story?’.

In which case they are not exactly victim-shaming/blaming (as, for example, Marina Hyde, writing about Brand/Ross/Sachs-gate, has acknowledged she may have done back in the Literally-Another-Country that was the Zeros) but more of a shrugging ‘victim’ whatever-ing. And not automatically perceiving Brand’s victims as, well, victims may coincide with a belief that, for numerous reasons, women sometimes make their own exceptionally bad life decisions all by themselves.

When (for example) a woman has sex with a celebrity who has flattered her by flirting, effectively clobbering her with a fatal combination of charisma, charm and cash-flashing, he may also offer her (albeit from his perspective entirely unwittingly) the remote possibility that the-morning-after will see him experience a romantic coup-de-foudre straight out of Jane Austen/Jilly Cooper/Curtis Sittenfeld.

Yup, even in the 21^st century many women sleep with high-status men in the hope – however absurdly slim and fleeting —  that he will realise she is The One.

However, when that doesn’t come to pass a woman will end up as the proverbial one-night-stand (or even half-a-dozen-consensual-nights-stands). After which, of course, the soul-corroding combination of weary sadness plus shame and anger (not to mention all those other internally self-flagellating omigods and what-ifs) are valid emotions. Whenever casual sex fails to translate into something less fleeting and more meaningful, this is EXACTLY what it can sometimes (though, obviously, not always) feel like to be female.

So why does pointing out that sub-optimal sex can make women feel crap about themselves make me feel like an Agony Aunt from Ye Olden Tymes? Of course, it’s not ideal to feel crap in this specific way — it hurts and you feel stupid and used. So, it’s OK — indeed, it’s often helpful — to feel both furious and sad about handing over temporary control of your physical and emotional happiness to somebody who really doesn’t care about either of those things because, after a while, you’ll get over it, having learned stuff.

And so life goes on.

And then, years later, you will probably not bother to respond to a call/email from a national newspaper investigating the tawdry mores of that male celebrity, now way past his alleged dick-swinging-in-primetime ‘prime’. Because you now give about as much of a shit about him as he ever gave about you.

Better this learning curve, imho, than navigating the contemporary culture of fake-it-to-make-it sex ‘positivity’, swiping your phone for endless empowering/demeaning (delete as applicable) hook-ups. How depressing that modern young women are expected to be forever, wearyingly, up-for-it while untethered by any happy-ever-after expectations… yet, simultaneously, encouraged to quickly call out/share/expose their most miserable sexual experiences at the hands of all those ‘useless’ men. How confusing that must be.

Back in the Dark Times, when I was a teenager, a ‘rapist’ was perceived to be a quasi-mythical stranger, possibly wearing a balaclava, who could grab you while you walked alone along a badly-lit pathway in the small hours, while you were probably drunk. So, you didn’t do that. At the same time, you silently considered the girls who did get drunk and walked along badly lit pathways and got dragged into hedges by strangers in balaclavas as… well, yes, clearly very unlucky but possibly also stupid…

And nobody wanted to be that girl in the 1970s and early 1980s. Instead, we took our chances in unregistered mini-cabs or in the back of night buses. And if we ‘got lucky’ and ‘pulled’, going home with a bloke from a party/disco/club/gig and then one thing led-to-the-inevitable other, and then that thing didn’t work out so great… Well, if there weren’t any bruises you filed it away. And if there were bruises, you figured maybe he might have some too. And if there were bits of it all that you couldn’t quite remember then that was, frankly, probably for the best. Like I say, this was back in the Dark Times.

So, anyway, on you went—admittedly a tiny bit more cynical than you were the last time it happened but, nonetheless, optimistic of a better future. And eventually – after a few false starts and by a combination of luck and judgement — you may even have found that future while taking ownership of all the mistakes you made, en-route.

And with a bit of extra work you might manage to do all of that without always blaming the men (yes, even the ones who were to blame!) simply because you also knew, deep down, that not only had you often made your own very stupid decisions – but that the majority of men who had hurt you almost certainly hadn’t intended to. That it wasn’t, in truth, always all about you.

Instead, there was an understanding that the men who hurt you may have done so because of their own flaws, fallibilities, strengths and weaknesses… their humanity. Which insight doesn’t automatically make you a wicked apologist for the Bad Guys — it just makes you a reasonably intelligent and empathetic human being.

If, in our increasingly shouty, binary, solipsistic, atomised future-world packed full of victims, men and women have the vaguest possibility of understanding each other (never mind actively loving each other) then it’s probably good for women to own our shit even as we actively encourage men to own theirs. Because, girlfriend, it's no more all about you than it is all about them.

Then again, as I say, I’m old.

PS It’s been a while since I’ve posted; many thanks for reading. If you enjoy my substack (which, given it’s free, I like to think remains exceptionally good value) then do consider ‘liking’ it… and maybe even buy me a coffee - it’s very much appreciated!

Meanwhile, as you can see above, I now review TV every Saturday in the Daily Mail’s Weekend magazine.